Post-Petroleum Chaga (A Poem)

I hear people praying for the post-petroleum age,
Some fear the potential dehumanization it may bring,
And others doubt that this civilization has any humanity at all—
Except for those small moments,
Brief situations that fall through the cracks,
Challenging the foundations, and sprouting,
Breaking the sidewalks into little pieces,
Listening to it crumble, as the birds sing like a friend’s mother

And I—More and more, I know nothing but layers of complexity,
Wandering through the woods, searching for Chaga,
Sacred birch, ancient mushroom, parasitic healer,
Drinking the black earth tea, I glimpse real union,
Two trees, each on their own rock chimney,
Over a wild cliff, they graft together,
And suddenly, I remember:
The best place to store meat is in your neighbor’s belly,

I sit and wonder if the tree could grow around my hand,
Like the character in my comrade’s mythical imagination,
But patience has been incompatible with all the caffeine,
And nicotine, and money, and industrial being,
So, I must flee to the Allegheny forest for freedom,
And pray for that post-petroleum age,
And pray and pray, and fear, and doubt, and listen,
Because cracks in the pavement allow my soul to breath.